by Allan Massie
But then word came that Galba's troops were within a day's march of Rome. Those of the Praetorians who had lent an ear to their prefect's seduction now felt panic. For all their reputation, few of them had any recent experience of war, and all disliked its imminent reality. When Nymphidius entered the camp to harangue them, they shouted him down. He withdrew in alarm, followed by a hail of oaths and missiles. I saw him white-faced and trembling, jostled by crowds as he made his way through the Forum towards his own house where he hoped to find refuge. He did not attain it. A troop of cavalry, either Galba's advance-runners or specially commissioned by Republican senators -no one knew which, then or later - forced their way through the mob, which itself parted and then fled in terror, and cut him down. They dragged his body to the Tarpeian Rock and hurled it, already lifeless, over; a purely symbolic enaction of the age-old penalty suffered by traitors. It lay at the foot of the rock till nightfall, no one daring to remove it.
By afternoon the Forum was deserted. It was a grey winter day and fear hung heavy as frost. I was unable to return across the river; detachments of soldiers, under whose command, if any, no one could tell, were to be seen at street corners and also at the bridges. The poor wretches were doubtless as confused as the mass of citizens. But in their confusion they were dangerous. You could not guess what they might take exception to, whom they might turn on in their own fear. I withdrew, hoping merely that my mother had kept to our apartment. So, by narrow lanes and a careful circuitous route, I made my way to the house in the Street of the Pomegranates where Domitian and Domatilla lodged with their aunt. I was happy to find all safe, but, though Domatilla looked on me with eyes of tender love, we did not dare embrace in the presence of others. It was hard, in my agitated mood, to be with her, and forbidden to touch her flesh, hold her in my arms, feel her lips against mine, and be restored in the shelter of our love. Domitian sat by the window, at an angle to it, able to look out, and believing he could not himself be observed from the street. He drank wine and bit his fingernails. I told them what I had seen in the city, from which the winter light was now being quickly withdrawn. Domitian spoke out to prevent his aunt from lighting the lamps. It was, he said, safer to sit in the dark.
'But why should we be endangered?' the aunt asked.
There was no answer to that, for there was no reason why we in particular, people of no position then, three of us young and the fourth an old woman given to good works and the practice of religion, should know fear. Yet we did.
When it was quite dark, there were steps on the staircase and a knocking at the door, which Domitian had shut with triple bolts after my entrance. He made signs in the gloom that we should not respond, but then a voice spoke, announcing that it was their uncle Flavius Sabinus.
He had come alone, without slaves or any of the soldiers whom he had at his command. Though he would not say that he sought refuge, that, I even then had no doubt, was his purpose in coming to his sister's house. He might be in no danger. But, as a public man in a responsible position, he feared he was; and preferred to withdraw himself from sight till the situation, whatever it might be, had resolved itself.
It embarrassed him that he could not tell us what was happening. All he would say was, 'I warned Nymphidius that the Praetorians would desert him. To whom have they ever been faithful?' We sat wakeful through the night. My own feelings were confused, disturbed. One moment I knew the infection of Flavius' fears, the next, catching sight of the girl's profile or feeling the gentle pressure of her breasts as she leaned over me to look out of the window, I was seized with near intolerable lust. Is there, I ask you, in the autumn of life anything which sets the nerves throbbing more smartly than summoning up memories of youthful desire? Summoning up is not the right expression; they rise unbidden as urgent dreams. Que de souvenirs, que de regrets, as the Greeks say.
Galba entered the city the following day. Without hesitation he revenged himself on those troops which had not openly and immediately done obeisance to him. When some marines whom Nero had armed hesitated to obey an order to return to the galleys, Galba ordered his Spanish cavalry to charge into the protesting mob of men. They were then rounded up, lined against a wall, and every tenth man cut down. This was, as Galba's supporters announced, evidence of his antique virtue. 'Decimation is an old Republican measure,' they said, nodding their heads.
When the semblance at least of peace and order had been restored, and it was clear that Galba was in command of the city, Flavius Sabinus went to pay his respects and was, to his surprise, confirmed in his post.
'Nevertheless,' Domitian said, 'he is not at ease. He says Galba's grip is uncertain. He says, too, that the old man is completely controlled by three of his staff whom my uncle terms "the Emperor's nursemaids".'
'Dangerous,' I said, 'to speak of them in that way, whoever they are. Who indeed are they?'
'I don't know much about them. How should I? I've been kept in this vile obscurity. One of them's called Titus Vinius. I think he was also a general in Spain. Another is Cornelius Laco . . .'
'Oh,' I said, 'you must know who he is. He used to be a Treasury official, and you must have seen him at the baths, eyeing up the wrestlers. He's very tall, rather fat, bald, with a big nose, and walks like a woman. Well, his tastes are a woman's, too.'
'He should have plenty of opportunity to gratify them then,' Domitian said, 'for he has been appointed Praetorian Prefect in succession to Nymphidius. He can command any brawny soldier he pleases to share his bed. And from what men say of the Praetorians, he won't find any difficulty in securing compliance. It's quite disgusting,' he added, his nose twitching. 'And, of course, the third nursemaid is the freedman Icelus, whom everyone says is our new Emperor's bedfellow. He's been made an equestrian, by the way, and wears so many jewels and gold bracelets you'd think he was on the stage. It doesn't sound to me as though the new regime is any more virtuous than Nero's. I wonder how long it can last?'
Everyone was asking that question. There were already rumours going around the Forum and the baths that the German legions were refusing to acknowledge Galba, and were intent on selecting an Emperor of their own.
'That's bad news for us,' Domitian's uncle said.
I didn't immediately realise what he meant.
'Wouldn't that depend on whom they chose?' I asked.
He looked at me as if I was a fool.
This letter, too, must be sent in an edited form. There is too much in it that is personal, that cuts too close to the bone.
X
Tacitus also may think I was foolish. He has the advantage of hindsight. Historians, knowing what happened, can make harsh judgements easily. But even now I do not think I was obtuse in not realising in the first weeks of Galba's brief reign that my Flavian friends had already set their sights on Empire. Why should I have done so? I had never been given occasion to think of Vespasian as other than an ill-bred mediocrity. Though Titus had talked of his own ambitions, I had never supposed they reached to the supreme power; and though he had always spoken of ‘the old man's talent for always getting that bit further than anyone expects him to, and doing a job better, too, than was looked for', yet I couldn't conceive that a man whom provincials had pelted with rotten vegetables could aspire to wear the purple.
As a matter of fact, from various conversations, hints and speculations, of which there was an abundance in that fevered time, I was persuaded that if the Eastern armies were to follow the fashion and elect an Emperor of their own, they would choose L. Mucianus, not Vespasian. As Governor of Syria, Mucianus was nominally Vespasian's superior. He excelled him also in birth and achievement. Yet when I suggested as much to Flavius Sabinus, saying that if Galba failed to establish himself, his successor might be Mucianus, rather than whoever the German legions chose, his reply was brusque.
You know nothing about it, boy. For the moment anyway there will be no movement from the legions stationed in the East. They will wait to see how things develop in Rome and beyond the Alps. But
Mucianus wouldn't do. We've had more than enough of that sort of thing. The soldiers want a real man as their Emperor, and preferably one with sons of his own.' Then he smiled, and patted my shoulder.
'Sorry to bite your head off,' he said, 'but it would be better if you didn't go around talking up Mucianus. Safer for you also.'
That was Flavius Sabinus' way. He could be crushing but, because he was naturally kind, always sought to mollify his reproof. He had a natural courtesy and polish of manner that his brother Vespasian lacked. Yet he had passed as much of his life in the camp as Vespasian himself. He had served under Corbulo in Armenia, and, despite distinguishing himself in battle, survived Corbulo's disgrace and retained Nero's confidence. Even Nero recognised that this stocky man with his close-cropped hair and down-turned mouth, which expressed freedom from any illusions, was trustworthy and honourable. Nero never even made jokes at his expense. In the next months I came to understand the selfless determination with which Flavius Sabinus advanced his family's interest - I say selfless because he never sought the first place for himself. But, equally, I never doubted that he was also driven by his understanding of what was best for Rome and the Empire.
When he spoke of the need to wait and see how events unfolded in Rome, this was, as I came to realise, because he was maturing a plan by which he hoped that his family could secure the Empire without further civil war.
Domitian broke the news to me.
'It's not fair,' he said. 'Do you know what my uncle is trying to do? He is working to persuade Galba to adopt my brother as his heir. Why Titus? Why is it always Titus? Why am I forever cast aside, or ignored, as of no account?'
You have,' I said, 'the misfortune to be a younger son. It's the fate of younger sons to take second place.'
'It's not fair,' he said again, and again.
How tired I was of hearing this refrain.
Domatilla said he was unhappy and couldn't help it. He was not to be blamed for his discontent.
I had a letter from Titus, written in the cipher we had agreed. I have it before me, but shan't send it to Tacitus, it's too personal. Reading it now embarrasses me. But there is one paragraph I might let him see.
'. . . I rely on you to keep me abreast of a situation that must be changing with an almost inconceivable rapidity. You have the keen intelligence that allows you to penetrate below the surface and understand the significance of what others see only superficially. What, then, is afoot? I know that my uncle hopes to persuade Galba to name me his heir, and this hope, I must tell you, is shared by my esteemed father. But it won't do. I have discussed the possibility with L. Mucianus, who has, you will be amused to learn, developed a special tendresse for me, even though I am some years older than the beardless ganymedes with whom he chooses to surround himself and who delight his rather excessive hours of leisure. (He has many merits, this Mucianus, but the ability to work long and hard is not among them.) Be that as it may, I admire his sagacity, the penetration of his intellect. He is clear that it would not be to my interest to be named by Galba as his heir. "The Empire," he says, "is not now in any single man's gift. It is carried on the point of the soldiers' swords. To be nominated by Galba is to be condemned to failure and an early death. Caesar and Augustus won their supreme position by force of arms, and the exercise of their political skills. We are again in the same position as they were: the Republic in ruins, and all to play for. But believe me, dear boy, it is only when much blood has been shed and battles fought that stability can be restored." It is remarkable that one who loves to lie in perfumed softness should speak with the accents of a cold clear morning. But I am not asking you to dissuade my uncle from his endeavours, if only because you must fail to do so, and he would think it strange, even suspicious, that you should make the attempt. In any case, it won't do our cause any harm, if people hear my name mentioned in that context. Meanwhile the urgent matter here is to quell this ridiculous Jewish revolt, that we may be free to march to Italy when the time is ripe.'
XI
Tacitus complains that my accounts are disjointed, that I veer off into personal reminiscences irrelevant to the great matter of his History. No doubt he is justified. Yet, as I sit here, there is more pleasure to be had, a quickening of the blood, in remembering how I occupied myself with Domatilla, and with fancies concerning her, than in recalling the dismal and brutal catalogue of crime and misery that goes by the name of history. Besides, it is only when I lose myself in memories of erotic moments, that the past seems real to me. But to work.
Tacitus: you do well to chide me. I shall strive to keep to the point.
I was in the Forum the day that the news of the revolt of the German legions was confirmed. It was bitterly cold, being the first week of January, and there was snow on the hills above Albano. The confirmation came from the Procurator of Belgica, in a dispatch to the Senate. I think his name was Pompeius Propinquus, but what his relation was to the great Pompey escapes me. He reported that the troops on the German frontier had refused to accept Galba as Emperor. He gave, prudently, no reason. Some said it was on account of Galba's age, some on account of his reputation for meanness. Most however thought it was simply because he was not their general; and that they had therefore little to hope from him. They had not yet elected an Emperor themselves, but instead required the Senate and the Roman People to name one agreeable to all.
That's the official line,' Domitian said, tugging my sleeve, 'but I know better. I have it on good authority that while they have sworn an oath of loyalty to the Senate and the Roman People, they have other plans.'
'Well, they must have,' I said. 'Everyone knows that the way things are such an oath is perfectly meaningless. Do they intend that the Guards should choose the Emperor?'
'That is not my uncle's opinion. He says they do not know what they want, only that they don't want Galba.'
'Who is there else?'
Domitian laughed: 'I thought you would be sure to know. You always pride yourself on being a couple of steps ahead of the game. This time you are well behind me.'
And he went off preening himself.
The truth was, it seemed to me, young and confessedly ignorant, that my question was good. The new commander of the legions in Germany was Aulus Vitellius, and it was to me impossible that soldiers could suppose that he was capable of Empire. It was true that I had never encountered Vitellius, but I had often heard my revered mother speak of him, and always with contempt. He had been, she remarked, the favourite in succession of Gaius Caligula, Claudius and Nero, 'which proves him to be a man of mean and despicable character'. He had often acted as procurer of virgins for the first and third of these Emperors, and it was his addiction to every form of vice which had secured him the continued favour of Nero, who could forgive anything except virtue. It was said that he had run through three fortunes, the last brought him by his most recent wife, and that he had had to pawn her jewels in order to finance his journey to his German command.
Yet in the fevered atmosphere of the Forum nothing was impossible. In any case, men said, Vitellius will be a puppet, and his two legates, Fabius Valens and Alienus Caecina, are able men and popular with the troops.
So rumours ran this way and that and everyone was calculating which way to jump.
It was in these days of unreality and fear that Titus suddenly arrived in Rome, sent when his father yielded to his uncle's insistence that there was a real chance that Galba would take a fancy to the young man and name him as his heir. His arrival perplexed me, on account of his most recent letter.
He had been in Rome two days before he came to see me in my mother's house, where I was confined with a heavy cold. My mother, having made him welcome and supplied us with wine, left us alone.
For the first time distance stretched between us. In the thirty months since we had last met, Titus had grown fleshy, I had acquired a beard. It was impossible to feel what we had previously felt.
By unspoken consent we did not dwell on what had gone before
, though Titus thanked me for my letters which had, he said, been of more use to him than any other reports he had received.
'My father thinks well of them, too,' he said.
'Surely you didn't. . .' I paused, recollecting some of the passages in my early letters, before Domatilla had supplanted her brother in my affections.
'Father cares nothing for any of that stuff,' he said and, stretching out, pinched the lobe of my ear between thumb and forefinger. 'I haven't been faithful to you,' he said carelessly. 'Greek boys, of whom there is an abundance in Antioch, are too fetching and willing also. Greek girls, too, if it comes to that. Lustrous curls and glistening skin. Delightful. You should come to the East with me. I'd take you back with me, if it wasn't for this mess here in Rome - and the value I set on your reports, and your judgement. I hope you can stop my little brother from making a fool of himself
'Would it still,' I asked, 'be against your interests to be named by Galba as his heir and partner in Empire . . . ?'
'"The partner of my labours". That,' he said, 'as you will doubtless remember, my dear, is what Tiberius called Sejanus - just before he did for him. No, I don't want that. Galba is an old cunt who can't deliver anything.'
